


Perils of Imprinting

by fleet_of_red



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Earth-11, F/F, F/M, Mommy Issues, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 20:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18630826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleet_of_red/pseuds/fleet_of_red
Summary: Gender-reversal AUDeathstroke considers telling the kid that she can train her to be strong. Transform her into someone who can withstand whatever the world throws at her and return it with a vengeance. Teach her to be hard and cold and self-sufficient...and maybe along the way, she can also train her to be a skilled assassin. Yet, with the guards converging nearby, Deathstroke simply reaches out and says, “Come with me, I will take care of you.”Neither can predict how this one action would ripple throughout the rest of their lives.





	Perils of Imprinting

**Author's Note:**

> SlaideRobin2019 prompt: “I will take care of you”
> 
> I picture Deathstroke looking like an older version of Rose with an eyepatch, and Rose looking like a much younger version of Slade with silver hair. 
> 
> Filial Imprinting (psychology): In which a young animal narrows its social preferences to an object as a result of exposure to said object. It is most obvious in nidifugous birds, which imprint on their parents and then follow them around. --Wikipedia.com

“Deathstroke is  _ not _ a good person,” Officer Grayson grunts through clenched teeth. The bindings on her limbs are secure and she can’t break free without alerting her captor, who has one hand on the steering wheel and another resting idly on a gun. She bids her time. 

“No one knows that more than I do,” Red Hood replies without taking her eyes off the road. 

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Do you honestly expect an answer, Nightwing?” 

The bound officer conceals her reaction to the casual mention of her vigilante alias, in case her abductor is fishing blindly for information. Still, Red Hood takes her silence as concession and taunts, “Maybe I’m worse than Deathstroke. After all, would a good person use you as bait to lure out the big Bat?” 

They are only a hour away from Gotham City and growing desperate, Nightwing decides to try another approach. She lets sincerity seep into her voice and says, “Deathstroke would’ve killed those people to get to me, but you didn’t. I get it, it might not feel like you have a choice, but you do! It’s not too late, let me help you!”  

“Nice speech; spoken like a true hero,” the young woman mocks in response, but the easy grin on her face is soon replaced by something almost regretful. “Unfortunately, you’re just a tad too late.”

 

\--------Years ago

 

It seems like Gotham City is always enshrouded in bad weather. Fog, snow, various levels of rain, take your pick. While making final adjustments to the scope of her rifle, Deathstroke pictures what it’d be like to stroll down Main Street at noon on a sunny day. With a harsh chuckle, she dismisses the notion and goes back to her preparations. 

The current condition suits her just fine: the rain will add an additional buffer to mask the sounds of people dying, and the darkness is useful if one needs to find cover from the local patrolling rodent. Confrontation with the Bat can wait another time, Deathstroke doesn’t like complications during an assassination contract. 

One can try to prepare for every problem that might arise during a mission, but the seasoned assassin puts more weight in being able to improvise on the fly. Slaide Wilson has taken on contracts that seemed straightforward at first, only for her to escape by the skin of her teeth after battling whole teams of “heroes”. Worse yet, complications usually don’t translate to a higher payment. 

Rarely does a mission become  _ simpler _ after she takes it. Even rarer for someone else to eliminate the mark before she arrives at the scene. She might as well savor the unexpected treat.

From the exterior, there’s nothing suspicious about the exclusive night club overlooking Gotham Bay. Yet, Slaide’s intel reveals that it’s actually the front to a syndicate prolific in trafficking of the human variety. The scenario is a common story by now. Her target is the new capo of the syndicate, but there are others eyeing the coveted seat, such as her new client. Despite meeting him only once, Slaide knew her client is far from being a bastion of morality, but as far as Deathstroke is concerned, it’s all the same shit, different day. 

Besides, the client paid the advance in untraceable cash. Always a plus. 

Deathstroke finds her target lying in bed with his neck slit and eyes bugged-out. Professional curiosity prompts her to go investigate; you never know when a new assassin enters the game and needs to have their wings clipped. Taking out competition is just part of the job. 

Eliminating the lone guard in the room is easy. Most of the security were sent to chase after the escaped assailant. The window overseeing the bay was shattered from the inside by a blunt object, probably the missing chair from the room. Whoever did the job then escaped by diving into the icy waters. 

Slaide turns to examine her dead target. The kill is fresh. The gaping wound across the victim’s neck hasn’t coagulated yet, although, judging by the rough knife work the killer is an amatuer. A professional would’ve cut through the vocal cords with a single slash instead of letting the dying man alert the guards with his death throes. There are two more stab wounds in the man’s torso, each without purpose and missing vitals. Looks like the killer panicked when the man started fighting back after the initial attack didn’t kill him instantly.  

Yup, the murder was done out of desperation. What a fucking mess. 

Deathstroke was in the middle of contemplating whether or not she can still claim to have done the job for the rest of the payment (and whether the quality of work would affect her reputation) when she hears a whimper.

With her loaded pistol in one hand, she steps toward the source of the sound: a closet in the corner of the room. Slaide rips the door open and finds a young girl, roughly ten-years old, hiding among the clothes and trying to choke back a sob. The girl’s face is hidden behind the crook of her arms but the ill-fitting shirt on her skinny shoulders is stained with fresh blood. The kid was there when the murder happened, perhaps she saw the killer. 

“Hey, kid!” Deathstroke lowers her gun and reaches out to shake the girl’s shoulder. “Hey, you hear me?” 

The girl stops sniffling and looks up. There is very little warning besides the glint in her eyes before she lunges forward with a switchblade, yet that is enough warning for Deathstroke. She steps back and blocks it with her protected arm. The dulled blade is no match for the Ikon suit, and Deathstroke seizes the girl’s thin wrist and adds pressure until she cries out and drops the knife. 

Even after losing her weapon, the girl lost none of her fire. She yanks her arm back to try and escape the iron grip, then failing that, she bites down on the offending fingers. Hard. Slaide can feel the force behind those teeth even through her gloves. 

Putting two and two together, it’s now clear what happened to the dead man. Guess the guards didn’t search the girl well enough--if at all--before delivering her like a tasty morsel to their new boss. Nothing less than what the pedophilic bastard deserves, and Deathstroke appreciates the irony. As for the girl...Slaide figures she broke the window to divert the first wave of guards with a fake escape then waited for an opportunity in the closet. 

“Stop using me as a chew toy before I knock your teeth out!” Slaide hisses. She tries to shake the kid off, but the girl only bites down harder. “Calm down, I’m not with the syndicate!” 

The words finally seem to have an effect and the kid’s large aquamarine eyes dart to the lone dead guard on the ground and back to Slaide. She un-clenches her jaw slowly and steps back. In a tone failing to cover up her naivete, she asks, “What are you? One of ‘em costumed superheroes, like Batwoman?” 

_ Seriously? _ Slaide wants to brush the kid off for the comment, but then she remembers that the Dark Knight dresses like a vampiric grim reaper, so it’s not like the kid has a good baseline for determining these sort of things. She answers with a shrug, “Far from it...but since I saved you, I might as well be your fairy godmother.”

“Right,” the girl mumbles and lowers her gaze to search for her dropped blade.  

“You hurt, kid?”

“Not my blood,” the girl replies, referring to all the red splatters on her clothes and face. She finds her knife on the ground and retrieves it with shaky fingers while keeping her eyes on Deathstroke. “I slit his throat before he did anything.”

Then, just outside the room, a man shouts into his walker-talkie, “You goddamn ingrates can’t even find _ a little girl _ ! What the fuck am I paying you for?” He then orders half of the guards back to the club while the remaining continue to search the bay on boats. 

The kid looks to the door with apprehension then turns to stare at Slaide. In a voice that finally betrays her fear, she whispers, “Look, I don’t care who you are or why you’re here, but I need to go home.” 

Slaide cocks her head. “Even if you can leave here in one piece, your house would be the first place they’d search.” 

“You don’t get it. These men came looking for my dad, he...he owes them money. He wasn’t home when they came so they took me instead. I...I need to warn him!” 

There are certain facts,  _ harsh truths _ of life that Deathstroke can see more clearly than anyone, despite her blind eye. For example, if left to her own devices, the little girl will be dead within the hour. 

She also acknowledges and accepts the fact that she was a terrible mother to her two daughters and a dreadful partner to her husband. Their family had been emotionally and physically abusive way before she cheated and impetuously carried a bastard child to term. And that same impulse is now compelling her to extend her hand and lie. 

She crouches down to the girl’s eye level and says, “Why do you think those men came to your house when your dad wasn’t home? He sold you off to pay back the loan, I heard the guards say so earlier. Got a good price for you too.” 

The kid looks away from the single, piercing eye watching her carefully. Her skinny shoulders visibly droop as she bites her lip in a futile effort to prevent any feeble sounds from escaping. It’s all sorts of pathetic. 

“What’s your name?” Slaide asks, before the girl cries and she changes her mind. 

“...Jay,” the kid whispers, eyes cast downwards.

Deathstroke considers telling the kid that she can train her to be strong. Transform her into someone who can withstand whatever the world throws at her and return it with a vengeance. Teach her to be hard and cold and self-sufficient...and maybe along the way, she can also train her to be a skilled assassin.

Then again, she doubts the distressed kid is in the right frame of mind to understand all that and Slaide doesn’t like wasting her breath. With the guards converging nearby, Deathstroke simply reaches out and says, “Come with me, Jay. I will take care of you.”

 

\--------

  
_ Creak. _

Not bad. The kid has avoided most of the loose floorboards in the room before making a slight mistake next to the bed. Still, Slaide tuts sternly as the slight figure slips under the cover to join her. If it had been her two daughters, she’d reprimand them before kicking them back to their own bedrooms...but that was a different lifetime ago.

“We talked about this, kid.” 

“I had a nightmare,” the girl answers and pops her head out from under the cover. 

It’s only been a few months since their encounter in Gotham, but the kid has been eating well, making up for the lack of proper nutrition from her life in the slums. Even her previously skinny limbs and thin face are regaining the plumpness of a growing child. 

“Great. I’m sure Wintergreen would  _ love _ to hear  _ all _ about it in the morning,” Slaide says, turning away from the kid and pulling the blanket with her as she did so. Yet, the kid doesn’t take a fucking hint and moves even closer to her, going as far as laying her head on her pillow. 

“Fine,” Slaide sighs after realizing the girl’s not leaving. “Is it the same nightmare you had before, the one about the night I found you?” 

“No, it wasn’t about the dead man.” 

“Well, spill. Thanks to you, I’m awake now, so you might as well get it out of your system.” 

“It was a dream about my parents…” the girl begins speaking in the dark room. “They were having one of their endless fights and I was hiding under the table with Dog. Then mom just started packing, so I cried and begged her not to leave. Then she asked me to go with her…”

“And then?” Slaide prompts with impatience. 

Jay’s whispers are barely audible, but with her pressed up against Slaide’s back, the assassin can hear every word. “Well, I guess I didn’t reply fast enough because then mom said, ‘Fine, stay and rot with your junkie father, I’m leaving on a solitary--’.” 

“Doesn’t sound very nightmare-ish so far.”

“It was! In the dream mom’s face was blurry...like she had multiple faces with different expressions overlapping one another. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain,” the girl says, pressing even closer to Deathstroke’s warmth. “But then I woke up, and I realize I couldn’t really remember what she looked like.” 

“That's unsurprising. You said she left when you were five. Memories are so malleable at that age, so does it matter if you can’t remember the face of someone who abandoned you?” Slaide asks, then when no reply came, she orders, “Now, sleep!”

Having settled the matter, the assassin ignores the girl next to her and attempts to return to sleep. For a moment, everything was calm, then Slaide feels a light tug on her head as tiny fingers shift through her hair. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Braiding your hair,” comes the answer.

  
“Alright, that’s it. If you’re not back in your own bed by the time I count to--”

“I might not remember her face, but she let me braid her hair,” Jay interrupts. “My fingers remember, anyway.” 

Deathstroke considers dragging the kid out of the room by  _ her _ hair and telling her to clean all the guns in the safehouse if she insists on staying awake. Tempting option. Instead, she scowls and says, “That’s called muscle memory, Jay.”

“Ah, muscle memory,” the girl repeats absentmindedly and continues her work with the silver hair. She doesn’t have anything to use to tie the end of the braid and she knows full well that once Slaide gets up in the morning, the braid will untangle itself and disappear. Still, she turns the finished braid on her palm and watches as it shimmers dimly in the darkness. Then sinking into the bed, she lets out a content little sigh. 

“Done?” Slaide turns to face the kid who gives her a small nod. “Good, now sleep. We get up at the crack of dawn.” 

It’s strange, the girl saw the assassin kill three men with a sword that very morning, and she knows that the woman can probably snap her neck with one hand...but lying next to her, Jay can’t recall ever feeling safer. She curls an idle finger around the braid and closes her eyes. She doesn’t tell Slaide that in her dream, one of the images overlapping her mother’s face had an eye-patch and ashen-colored hair. 

 

\--------

  
When Jay accepted the offer to be trained by Deathstroke the Terminator, she went in with her eyes wide open. She had no illusions about the kind of gruelling effort that would be asked of her: she’d be pushed beyond her breaking point and then some. However, she didn’t expect that there would be another kid training alongside her. 

Deathstroke’s son, Roswell--or just Ros, as the family calls him--inherited the silver hair and blue eyes from his mother, but his slightly darker skin tone and facial features hint to his mixed South-East Asian heritage. And despite the boy being a year older than Jay, he is one immature little shit who would get her attention by endlessly showing off and pestering her. 

Unfortunately, the thing about tagging along the world’s deadliest assassin while she travels around the world is that you don’t exactly stay in one place long enough to make friends. By necessity, Jay and Ros trained together, played together and fought together, despite the constant bickering. Then several years later, unbridled teenage hormones get added into an already dangerous equation. 

They are staying in a rented villa in Cairo while waiting for Deathstroke to finish putting a bullet through a wannabe dictator’s head. Even though it’s still technically late Spring, the weather is already scorching hot during a record breaking week. Following the detailed training instructions Slaide left them, the two teenagers decide to spar outdoors in the shaded courtyard next to an abandoned fountain where it’s breezy. 

“Think fast! Favorite safehouse?” Ros shouts while dashing forward with a flurry of fast punches.

“Easy!” Jay ducks the first punch, blocks the next two with her arm, and counters the last with a punch of her own. “Marseille, on top of that French bakery with the best cappuccino. You?”

“Lame! The cafe near the safehouse by that Istanbul market had better coffee!” Ros argues, not breaking his stride. 

“Except we didn’t have working electricity in that safehouse,” Jay throws back a reply along with a kick. “But I suppose either places are better than this one.”

“Yeah, I hope we go somewhere near the ocean next.” 

Due to the blistering heat, Jay is sparring in a pair of black shorts and a sports bra while Ros is fighting topless. Having being personally trained by Deathstroke, the girl now fights on instinct, her body reacting faster than her thoughts...an unfortunate combination with her bad habit of letting her mind drift during a fight. 

Last week, during morning weight-training, she had a startling realization that the annoying boy bench pressing next to her had turned into someone quite different. Since then, she watches Ros--who finally grew taller than her the past summer and has been shoving that fact into her face since--with a new found fascination, like she’s discovering the other teenager for the first time. 

Right now even as they’re trading blows, she wanders how high his heart rate is and if she can feel the beats with a palm over his chest. Then, her mild distraction over beads of sweat dripping over well-toned muscles leads to her mistaking a feint for a punch, and Ros knocks her into the fountain behind her. 

“Ugh, this water stinks,” she mutters with disgust and stands up from the stale pool of the fountain. While tucking strands of wet hair behind ears she waits for the well-deserved chuckle and insults mocking her carelessness. They never came. When she looks up again, Ros is staring at her with an expression she’s never seen on his face before and it makes her feel vulnerable and powerful all at the same time. 

He swallows once and turns away, a flush creeping up his neck as he mumbles something unintelligible under his breath. The warm breeze stills between them...then Jay pulls him into the fountain with her.

“What the fuck,” Ros yells after resurfacing. 

“Never take your eyes off your opponent, dumbass,” Jay laughs. Before he can reply, she pulls him in for a kiss. 

  
\---------

 

Even after they’ve started sleeping together--always when the “adults” are away--she’s still not sure how much of their attraction is due to their physical proximity and convenience. It’s not like they have plenty of other options around them. And if Jay is honest with herself, she would admit that a large part of the thrill comes from not getting caught. 

Factually, she knows Ros is like a brother to her (she had mocked him mercilessly when his voice first cracked, for chrissakes) and in normal families, siblings don’t fuck each other. Then again, what does she know about normal families? 

Her parents fought nonstop until the moment her mom packed up and left on her  _ solitary _ journey, leaving Jay to care for her junkie father who later sold her to human traffickers. Her only friend was Dog (Jay would like to think that she uses her creativity toward better things than names for pets) who ran away when they couldn’t afford dog food anymore and never returned. She’s not sure which idea haunts her more, that Dog died after running into Gotham traffic or if it found a loving family to take it in. 

All Jay knows is that if she can fool someone into liking her, loving her even, she should just cling on and never let go. 

They have been temporarily living in an abandoned mansion South of Italy, next to what used to be a winery. It’s not a safehouse, per se; it lacks the equipment and other safety features, but Wintergreen had vetted the location and it’s far enough from wondering eyes. After all, safe houses are expensive to maintain, and like Slaide had once told them, “There’s not enough money to buy and stock safehouses wherever contracts are. Who the hell do you think I am, Brucina Wayne?” 

Wintergreen had gone to accompany Deathstroke on a mission, so the teenagers have the entire mansion to themselves. After discovering a hidden cache of premium Scotch, the two proceeds to celebrate their brief freedom by getting plastered in the grand living room. 

“If Slaide can see us now, she’d skin us alive,” Jay giggles and drains half the glass. Her eyes are closed as she sways her body to nonexistent music in only a shirt and panties. 

“Well, I don’t plan on telling her,” Ros says and reaches for the glass in her hand with a quick swipe. “And you’ve had enough to drink. We both know you’re a light-weight.” 

Jay swings her hand out of reach and sends the rest of the liquor flying across the room. They both curse loudly as the splash of liquid lands on antique carpet, soaking through it instantly. Then they turn to each other and burst out laughing. 

“Shut up and _ ravage _ me already,” Jay beckons with a lazy grin. She sets the empty glass down next to the bottle and reaches for his hand.   

“Oh god, you did  _ not _ just say that!” Ros rolls his eyes but his smile grows wider. He slips a hand under her shirt to cup the soft mounds on her chest. Then the door slams open. 

On instinct, they automatically flip to the other side of the couch for cover, but Deathstroke had already seen all she needed to see. 

“Shit, I thought they won’t be back until tomorrow,” Jay mouths the words and searches the room for an escape route: there are none. 

Slaide’s voice is level, even eerily calm, but to the teenagers it was worse than a roar. “You’ve been told to spar and train while we were away. Since you ignored my instructions, clearly you think you’ve had enough practise. Show me.”

The fight, if you can call it that, didn’t take long at all. Even with the both of them fighting against Deathstroke, they weren’t a match for the seasoned assassin...especially while they’re both drunk out of their minds. After dodging a frantic punch, Slaide pivots around and knees Ros right in the gut. The teen drops on all fours and throws up onto the floor. Jay jumps onto Slaide’s back and wraps an arm around her neck in a choke-hold, but the assassin uses her momentum to unbalance her. She flips Jay over, crashing her into the coffee table and breaking it in half.  

“Clean up your mess before Wintergreen returns,” Deathstroke commands her son even as he whimpers on the ground with a hand over his stomach. She then turns to Jay who’s curled up in pain on top of the split table. She picks her up effortlessly and slings her over a shoulder before heading upstairs. “And  _ you _ are going to your room.”

“Fuck you!” Jay wiggles against the tight grip when a wave of nausea hits her and she groans. Damn, she did drink too much. And as entertaining as it might be, throwing up all over Deathstroke would probably make the situation worse. With a frustrated whine she goes limp on Slaide’s shoulder. The room swims around her and she squeezes her eyes shut.

Deathstroke kicks open the bedroom door and drops Jay unceremoniously onto the bed. “Put some fucking pants on, then I want you to think about what you did,” she hisses and turns to leave. 

“I’m not a kid anymore, you can’t fucking tell me what to do!” Jay shouts back and regrets it immediately. 

Slaide turns back and peers down at her and snaps, “Then why are you acting like a spoiled brat looking for attention?” 

“I’m not!”

Deathstroke walks up to the bed and flips the girl over her lap, ass up. Jay struggles, but with a firm elbow between her shoulder blades pinning her down, she couldn’t get enough leverage to resist. So, she begins lashing out with every profanity she knows and even some made-up on the spot. 

The first slap on her ass took her by surprise and she shrieks. The subsequent blows stun her into silence. Deathstroke is  _ spanking _ her. The sound of open palm contacting her skin is obscenely loud in the small room. The assassin isn’t holding back either, every slap sends a shock of pain through her body. The thin fabric of her panties offers no shelter from the harsh stings, but it’s the humiliation that makes tears swell to her eyes. 

How dare Deathstroke treat her like a child? Can a child strip, clean, and reassemble different forms of firearms while blindfolded? Can a child survive the wilderness of Northern Canada after her mentor dumps her there with nothing but a knife, a canteen, and a box of matches? Can a child snipe five guards--three of them moving, one of which would’ve called for reinforcements--when a mission goes belly-up? Can a— Goddamnit! She has proven herself to Deathstroke over and over and over and over...

Unable to hold back, Jay lets hot tears run down her cheeks. When the spanking finally stops, her tender skin feels like it’s on fire. “Does it make you feel powerful spanking me, Deathstroke?” she accuses bitterly while still bending over Slaide’s lap. “Bet you enjoyed that!” 

“You will not disobey an order, do you understand?”

“Are you upset that we didn’t train like you asked or because I’m fucking Ros?” 

“Do you love him?”

The unexpected question instantly puts Jay on alarm. With a wince, she pushes herself off Slaide’s lap. She considers her words with caution and answers, “We were just helping each other get off. What do you expect, leaving two bored, horny teenagers by themselves?”

“I expect more self-control instead pathetic acts of adolescent rebellion rooted from pent-up sexual frustration.”

A wicked idea enters Jay’s mind. She’s been humiliated enough today, time to turn the table and watch Slaide squirm. “Maybe my masturbation skills aren’t up to par, what do you think? Perhaps you should correct my techniques?” she goads with a smirk.

Deathstroke didn’t even have the courtesy to look scandalized as she replies, “It’s possible. God knows after your mother abandoned you, your junkie father taught you nothing.” 

It’s true, when she first got her period years ago, she was convinced she was bleeding out, dying slowly but surely. Wintergreen, bless that woman, had the unenviable task of giving her the  _ talk _ and educating her about puberty, only for the young girl to declare that the whole deal fucking sucks. 

“Like you said, perhaps we  _ should _ brush up on your self-reliant skills so you’re not a slave to your hormones,” Slaide continues. When Jay remains still, she gestures with impatience. “Well then, whenever you’re ready.”

_ Fuck _ . Feeling like she had her bluff called, yet not willing to back down either, Jay slowly removes her underwear and lets it slip off an ankle. She tries to calm her nerves as she lies down on her back, but she can feel the furious blush heating her face.  

Calm as ever, Slaide comments, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you’d rather wait until Wintergreen returns—”

“No…”

Partly due to feeling like she’d come too far to stop and partly fueled by liquid courage, Jay spreads her thighs and with a hesitant hand starts rubbing herself. She clenches her jaw while trying to ignore the other person in the room.

It’s not like this is new. Deathstroke took her to a clinic for IUD insertion shortly after her first period--needing to take daily birth control is a liability in their line of work, so is an unplanned pregnancy. Back then, Jay still had recurring nightmares about that night in Gotham, when they first met. The dreams involved her being restrained and helpless as men used her at the club. Despite putting on an air of cool indifference, she was actually unsettled by the entire prospect of lying on an examination table, legs in stirrups, and being spread open by a cold pendulum as a stranger touches her.

Slaide had noticed her apprehension at the clinic and stayed by her side the entire time, despite the doctor’s protest. Deathstroke merely gave him a look and dared him to remove her. It meant a lot to Jay, even if she never thanked Slaide for it. 

Lying on her bed now, Jay continues to massage the needy flesh and settles on a steady rhythm. She’s surprisingly wet and her fingers are soon slick with moisture. Must be the make-out session with Ros earlier, she reasons. Although the heat on her buttocks from the spanking earlier also made everything much more sensitive. Her toes curl as she imagines silver hair moving between her thighs, lapping at the folds and licking the center of her desire. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol removing her filter, because she turns to Deathstroke and taunts, “See, don’t need anyone to teach me.” 

Deathstroke regards her with a cool and collected gaze then asks, “And do you know how to locate your g-spot?” 

Forget locating the g-spot, Jay barely knows where she is right now. She snorts, “Yeah, it’s somewhere inside, right? What, you wanna show me?”

“I could,” comes the reply and Jay momentarily loses her rhythm. 

There is a full-sized oval mirror in the corner of the room. Slaide moves the floor mirror next to the bed and adjusts the angle to reflect Jay’s movements. Then she settles onto the bed behind her and pulls Jay back to nestle between her legs. Jay leans back against Slaide as the woman embraces her from behind. 

“Now, pay attention,” the assassin coos into the shell of her ear. 

Jay whines incoherently as Slaide traces her middle finger from the fleshy area on top of her pubic bone down along the length of her inner lips. Unlike with Ros who usually wants to bury his cock in her as soon as soon as he can, Slaide is taking her sweet time to explore all her delicate folds. Pleasurable tingles run down Jay’s spine as a finger circles her entrance once, twice, then slides in past the second knuckle. 

She arches her back and opens her mouth in a soundless moan. Slaide’s finger continues its thrusting motions in and out of the lubricated passage, and Jay starts moving her hips to the new rhythm subconsciously. Without warning, the finger curls into a come hither motion and starts stimulating the top of her inner wall. That coaxes a gasp and an expletive from the girl. 

Slaide sounds strained as she breathes, “Feel that? During arousal, this area swells up and becomes more textured than the surrounding tissues. Open your eyes and look closely.” 

Jay obeys her command and becomes enthralled with what she sees. The girl reflected in the mirror has her legs spread widely apart, her thighs pale in comparison to the rosy color of her sex now swollen with blood flow from the stimulation. Her dark hair, damp with sweat, looks wild and disheveled around her face. Her breaths are fast and shallow, and she looks absolutely drunk with pleasure. 

Slaide pushes another finger into her and Jay squirms against the body behind her in a silent plea for more. She grips the bed sheet tightly with white knuckles as Slaide’s other hand starts rubbing her nub, adding to the layers of pleasure. Desire is a tight coil in the pit of her stomach and Jay thrusts forward onto the fingers one more time and comes with a cry. 

The intensity of the orgasm hits her and she can’t stop her thighs from shaking. She can feel her inner walls pulsate around Slaide’s fingers, squeezing them, trying to keep them in. With a moan, she tilts her head back against Slaide’s shoulder and loses herself in the depth of the blue eye peering down at her. How can her body contain so much pleasure just waiting to be wringed out? And how can Deathstroke know her body so much more than she does? 

Slaide removes her wet fingers and presses a light kiss to Jay’s temple and purrs, “That’s my girl.” 

Those words alone might be better than all her previous touches combined and they send another delightful shockwave through Jay. She melts bonelessly into the warm, solid embrace behind her. But before she’s had her fill of post-coitus bliss, Wintergreen—damn that woman—bellows from downstairs. 

“That was a bottle from a rare cask release. I’ve been storing it longer than you two rascals have been alive! Young lady, you too, come here this instant and explain yourself!” 

Slaide straightens up on the bed and chuckles, “Well, don’t keep Wintergreen waiting; time to go and face the music.” 

Jay nuzzles back against her and hams it up with a throaty whine, “Oh c’mon, didn’t you say you’d take care of me?” 

With a laugh, Deathstroke nodges the girl off the bed. She shakes her head and chides, “And you said you weren’t a spoiled brat?” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> From the comics:  
> \- Jason and Rose dated at one point  
> \- Yup, Deathstroke is douchey enough to sleep with his son’s fiancee behind his back. It happened.  
> \- Jason has always been a mama’s boy despite the woman being a junkie and dying from an overdose. His absentee father becomes a multi-faced(?) villain name Solitary 
> 
> Next chapter:  
> Ravager confronts them and it doesn’t end well. Also, it seems like Jay still can’t avoid dying in this timeline. At least, similar to her canon counterpart, an enigmatic figure from the League of Shadows intervenes...with ulterior motives. The story will eventually take her back to Gotham with a kidnapped Nightwing in tow.


End file.
